


You're Not Dead. But I'm not alright, either.

by CescaLR



Series: The Time After Everything (Season 4 AU) [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: ... - Freeform, Drinking, F/M, Gen, Malia lets him deny things, Mentions of Stydia, Post Nogitsune, So., Sort-of, Stalia, Stalia aren't in love but they're together, Stiles Has Nightmares, abuse of Adderall prescription., and actions (Stiles & Scott), anger issues, apparently, au-ish, dead!Alison, hinted lack of eating properly (Stiles), i know i'm so far behind but I haven't watched season four yet., i think, just read metas and stuff on the internet., just warnin' ya., mentioned past attempt at suicide (Scott), mentioned past suicidal thoughts (Stiles), mentions of Alison, mentions of past nogitsune hosts, mentions of what the nogitsune did, nogitsune after-effects, not really hinted though., not the main focus though, onesided though., pretty obvious, season 4, sorry - Freeform, stiles has them now, stiles is something-ish but doesn't want to admit it., that's how this works, uh. - Freeform, um, um..., umm, unhealthy coping methods, we all know that's stiles though, yeah.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-19 22:47:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7380580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CescaLR/pseuds/CescaLR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles honestly isn't surprised when the nightmares don't stop after the nogitsune. So he copes with Malia, and like the others he pretends everything is alright during the daytime. When. Well. It really, really isn't. (Stalia, Stiles-Centric. Oneshot.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Not Dead. But I'm not alright, either.

**Author's Note:**

> fixed formatting :D

Stiles honestly isn’t surprised when the nightmares don’t stop after the nogitsune.

When they get worse but better; when they’re back to being shitty memories, tragic re-imaginings and what might have been-s. When he doesn’t have to scream himself awake but can’t wake until they’re finished; until his mother breathes her last breath, his father throws the bottle, until Scott's fist, claws out and snarling, or Gerard’s, him calm and collected, slams into his face and all goes black for a second. Until the nogitsune does unspeakable things with his hands, his body. When he kills, or – or _worse,_ tortures those he loves and can’t stop it happening – _this is just a dream but I can’t wake up, I can’t I can’t – WAKE UP -_

And he doesn’t.

So – yeah. It’s better because he’s no longer a puppet on strings for a crazy psycho fox, but – but it’s worse; it’s _so much worse_. Worse when he does things the nogitsune never talked about; the plans and vague half-thoughts dredged from the back of his mind to the front – the horrors _he_ conjures up, he _not_ the nogitsune. He comes up with the worst ones.

He always has done.

_Hey, wanna go look for half a body in the woods? That sounds fun!_

It’ll get you bitten, but hey. _I’m bored._

Stiles wonders, sometimes, why no-one seems to want to fix his problems. Don’t get him wrong, he’s grateful people ignore he has them, that they treat him the same (yet different, oh so different. Holy _god_ , when was the last time someone hadn’t sent him a wary look they think he won’t notice? A minor flinch he shouldn’t notice, but can now, for some reason. Too long, too _frickin’ long_ ago) as they used to, for the most part.

But – but.

 _But._  
He knows, - _oh, I know_ – he _knows_ he should be grateful. **You’re not dead**. Some would say. In return, he’d say, if he were brave enough to upset the careful normality they all seem to be faking these days, he’d say _but I wanted to be, didn't I?_ And they’d stare and they’d _stare._

So he doesn’t.

B _ut I think it, sometimes. Then I think of Scott, and gasoline and flares and **pain,** of Lydia and tunnels and ‘you’ll be screaming’, of strings and red and **red** and blue, think of Alison, of messages and bows and crossbows and ring daggers, of swords and smirks and dead **dead**_ **funeral** _–_

 _And scold myself. Scott can’t lose anyone else,_ He thinks. _Nor can Lydia, no matter what **she** thinks._ And scolds himself some more.

( _So all the people left crying at your funeral…_

That’s been more real than ever, these last weeks.)

So he keeps himself together. Cracks jokes no matter how flat or (in)appropriate, does the research and civilises Malia and they date because they date – neither of them really care, in that way, all that much but it’s hope for the others; they get along and she’s attractive, and he’s the only one she can stand all that much.

Really, in the long run, she uses him for body heat and teachings, copies his habits (green yellow red _red **red**_ ) and morality with a blunter edge, and he uses her to stay sane, for something to hold onto when he wakes up from stabbing another sword into Scott with the words _you really shouldn’t have trusted us Scotty,_ or his mother and _**he’s trying to kill me**_ playing over and over and she doesn’t mind the crescent shaped marks in her arms for all of a few seconds.

And she’s warm, and he’s warm and they keep each other _warm._

It’s not love, it’s nowhere near love, not even close. She’s not – she’s not been around enough to even vaguely understand it and he knows he doesn’t, never has, though he thinks he feels it for Lydia, he thinks he does and she’s okay with that because it isn’t about love, for them.

Just something to hold on to. So they talk, and he teaches and she listens and – and maybe they drink, sometimes, straight jack and everything because that’s all he has and it’s on the shelf _right there._

It’s not healthy coping, he knows that – **_it’s you stiles, it’s all you_** – but it’s a case of that being how he _knows_ to cope, how his dad did before him and – and how he does now. He supposes there’s a reason for that.

He doesn’t spend all night on Wikipedia as Malia sleeps, no he does not.

(Okay, maybe he does. He finds that reason.)

 _But._ But when they wake up, and they turned over in their sleep; him on his back and Malia cuddled up to his side or him spooning her or facing each other, legs a tangled mess and trying to free themselves, laughter and kisses and –

And he thinks, _I could learn to love this._

(He hopes, sometimes, in his sappier, more drunken moments that maybe she could too.)

 _Another day, another maiming death and dismemberment filled nightmare,_ he thinks to himself. _This is not fucked-up at all. Nope._ But it totally is. His grip on Malia’s bicep is white-knuckled, she’s tense and he feels that pain; can sense it in a way he never used to, and he feels bad that he lingers for a second before letting go as quickly as possible. No. No, no. _No._ She relaxes against him, lets out a breathy sigh and turns over, pecks him on the lips and leaves through the window to wherever she lives these days, to get showered and dressed and ready to go to school.

And, well. She shouldn’t really be living – sleeping, rather – here, but she is so that’s that. In the end.

He lays there for a minute, torturing himself with the memories of the nightmare before they fade and he sighs (more growls, but none the less makes some form of noise) and gets up, grabs some clothes (t-shirt, hoodie, jeans, the usual. No flannel, not recently. The nogitsune would never have chosen to wear flannel. He puts the hoodie back, violently, and grabs the most horribly offensive flannel shirt he can find. Orange and blue, he thinks, for a second, and chuckles to himself, but stops, abruptly, because _Stiles_ doesn’t chuckle, _He_ did.), leaves the room and gets ready.

He doesn’t eat. He does, however, grab some soda and a bottle of Adderall pills.  
Maybe he grabs more than one and takes more than advised, but _goddamnit_ , he needs to concentrate. He missed a lot of school, when ill and possessed, and well.

If he wants to graduate (which, contrary to popular opinion, he does) he has to concentrate.

Also? He _needs_ to concentrate, hyper fixate rather than be hyperactive, and Adderall helps that. Helps him be of some use, the _weak human_ be of _some_ use to the supernatural, via research and knowledge and plans. (That. Well. Generally go awry.)

 _Weak_ , a voice thinks and flashes back to smashing a wooden baseball bat into splinters and sawdust, of throwing Derek across the room. _Weak?_ It thinks, and he replies. T _wice is not a pattern._ Because he’s used to voices in his head and doesn’t think on the fact that any should be long gone aside from his own.

Then it flashes back to holding the paralyzed dead weight of a twenty-five (?) year old alpha (was he alpha at that point? Stiles can’t quite remember. It seems so long ago) whilst wearing heavy clothes up from water for two hours straight and he has no reply to that.

He grabs his keys and leaves the house, then slams his fist into the steering wheel in a display of anger-violence he never really used to do all that often but seem to happen randomly now - when the jeep doesn’t start.

He’s not at all surprised by the fact this starts the car, just puts it into gear and drives to the end of the road, lets in Malia and goes to the school.

For some of the ride they sit in silence, and in typical Malia fashion she gets straight to the point.

(Sometimes, she reminds him of the Hales.)

“What’s up with you? I’ve been quiet, because I’ve been told what happened and apparently it’s not correct, according to society, to pry into people’s lives. But you’re not how they describe you. So. Tell me.” And she stares expectantly at him as he keeps his eyes on the road, fingers tapping an unknown to him yet known at the same time rhythm onto his steering wheel.

He takes a left, licks and bites at his lip before sighing, flicking his eyes to Malia and adjusting his grip on the wheel. “Nothing really. Just, you know. The usual. Nightmares, random bouts of anger. Excessive use of Adderall. Things that have been happening since forever.” She stares at him, in a way others would call blank, but he knows her and calls it searching. He shifts gear and takes a right turn. “Okay.” She replies, and turns to gaze out of the windshield. “Tell me when you’re ready.” Because though he may not have been lying, his heart may not ( _did not_ , he _knows_ it didn’t) stutter, or raise it’s speed, but in a way he was. _Lies of omission_ , he thinks.

Not a lie. But not a truth either. In a way, a deflection.

She’s right though. They’ll get drunk later, at night when his dad is at work trying to solve another case from the past with a new worldview, and he’ll confess his secrets and she’ll listen, because. Really. He knows she never gets drunk on those nights, knows she lets him not be the responsible one for once. Knows she lets him loosen his tongue with liquor, she opens him up and figures him out then puts him back together again and it works for the most part.

Those days usually start like this anyway.

He shifts the gear and turns off the ignition, and the car sputters and she says “You should really take this to a garage.” And she looks at him. “Duct tape only works for so long.” And he nods, and she nods and they get out. He moves to where Scott is and she moves to Lydia as per their agreement, and the day moves on as it will do and has done for a week or so.

It’s been three weeks and nothing has happened, but only they seem to be trying to fix themselves. Lydia’s reverted, gone back to being Queen Bee and he can’t blame her, control is something they both require. Scott’s dived into lacrosse like it’s the only thing keeping him sane and maybe it is, the release and the aggression and him being able to be violent without feeling guilty because it’s a violent game. Kira’s – well, he doesn’t quite know. He only sees her when she’s around Scott or Lydia, and then they’re all around each other at that point so really. He doesn’t know how she copes, spends her time. They’re pack, sure, but they don’t interact one-on-one enough to be friends.

That morning, he holds back two random bouts of aggression and helps Malia with math. Really, he counts today as a success already, as lately this is how his successful days start out.

Lacrosse is odd, and economics is odd, with a different teacher, with a different coach. He doesn’t show up (for the seventh time in a row), even though he should, because he can’t stand the reminder of what he did to coach to drag his dad away from the station, of how at that moment he deemed coach’s life less worth it than his father’s.

It retaliated by trying to get coach killed by the wound, by twisting the arrow but Stiles knew biology. Knew that an injury to the area he got shot would produce a lot of blood and hurt like hell but not kill, _never_ kill.

So he doesn’t show up, and Scott and Lydia don’t say anything, and Kira doesn’t know or has been told not to say anything because she’s giving him weird looks and he leaves, abruptly, because _I forgot, I have to do something guys_ and it’s a terrible excuse but they let him go, Lydia’s lips pursed but eyes worried, Scott with that kicked puppy look that always makes Stiles feel like shit, and Malia with that searching stare of hers that in times like this makes him feel uncomfortable. Kira is confused but lets it go as the others do, and it’s such a pack mentality right now that he needs some air to breathe.

He may be pack, but he is human and he knows that that makes it different. For one, Scott can flash his eyes all he likes but that would never make him cower or back down. (Not that Scott would. He’s _Scott_. But still.) For another, he doesn’t know Kira, and he really is not a fan of her mother even though he’s never really met her (but he dreams and remembers memories he’s never had and he does, he has met her he knows her, _intimately_ , and yet _he_ doesn’t and it’s really, really _fucking weird_.)

He avoids Kira more for the reason she looks so much like Noshiko – like Mrs. Yukimura, that it’s confusing and weird and he doesn’t even know the woman. The woman’s daughter. The woman. Neither.

Well. _The Foxes_ , he should yet shouldn’t say.

So he avoids. It’s simple, Occam’s razor and easy enough seeing as they’re not really friends, as the most she really knows of him are ill or possessed, of swords and Scott and wrists and black-out knock-outs.

And, really, if Scott bothered to notice she was avoiding Stiles just as much, all wary glances and half-assed excuses Scott buys because he’s Scott and he trusts everyone.  
Except for when he doesn’t, when he double-crosses people and gives them mountain ash tablets and expects, _plans_ for them to die –

And says that they can’t kill people. That they can’t become those that they’re trying to defeat.

(In a weird way, it’s Scott who’s the master of working with the enemy. Of double-standards and double-crossings.

Stiles is the master of working behind people’s backs.)

He doesn’t stay that afternoon, signs out at the entrance and the old lady smiles sadly at him and nods because of course she was told he could do this and the reasons why, and he leaves the school and gets in the jeep, and waits and waits.

Not a minute later Malia arrives, and calmly, quietly gets in the passenger side.

He looks at her, his eyes questioning, and she replies, straightforward. “Paid a freshman to pull the fire alarm, and escaped in the chaos.” And he smiles, slightly, as he remembers teaching her that.

(What? It’s practically mandatory, to know how to get out of school in their line of work. He can’t help if she uses that information, that knowledge when there isn’t an emergency.)

He nods, and reverses out of the parking spot and drives off ever so slightly above allowed speed so that Malia isn’t caught skipping school.

She smiles softly, and he figures she saw that gesture for what it was.

(They’d have been fine for a while, considering the fact an alarm had been pulled. He didn’t need to risk a speeding ticket. Not that he’d get one, but still.)

He elects to use the back roads, to drive around for a bit before going home, and he focuses on driving while she gathers her thoughts into coherent questions.

When she looks ready, he starts in the direction of home, making a u-turn in a no u-turn area, and she looks amused.

(This is why he isn’t teaching her to drive. Lydia teaches her lawful driving, and he’ll be teaching her after she gets her permit.)

“If you weren’t the sheriff’s kid, you’d get in trouble for that.” She states, barely-there amusement coloring her words in a way only a few can hear. (Lydia, herself, and him. Obviously. Kira, maybe but again. He wouldn’t know.)

“But I am.” He pointed out, and then stopped at the red light, changing gears. “So. There’s that. Useful, really.” And she nods, gazing out of the window at the streets passing by.

He taps out that same rhythm as before, the one he knows yet doesn’t, on the steering wheel. He stills his hand and changes gear, making a sharp, most likely illegal turn onto his home’s lane.

Again, she looks faintly amused. He cracks a small smile, and she does, and he reaches out a hand to change the gear to reverse and parks the car.

He waits. She covers his hand with hers and squeezes, and gets out of the car. She gestures vaguely, (he needs to teach her more of those, he reflects), and jerks her head in the direction of the house. “You coming? Jack’s not going to drink itself, you know.” And he does, he gets out of the jeep and locks it, and enters the house and locks it too.

Malia had the Jack out and the glasses before he’d locked the door, and she was staring at him, immobile in the doorway. “You alright?” she questioned, a slight difference in her tone that he knew to be her version of softness, and he nods, vaguely, and meanders over to the couch, hands clasped between his legs and bent over, left foot tapping that same rhythm, staring at nothing and everything.

She hands him the jack, her own glass full, and he takes it, takes a swig before filling his own glass and putting the bottle down.

He passes the glass between his hand and drinks from it, whereas she sips hers and stays oddly still.

She looks thoughtful, and he stares at her out of the corner of his eye.

“What are your nightmares about?” she questions, and he lets out a breath, harsh and loud in the silence of the house.

He finishes his glass in the next gulp, and forgoes the use of it, grabbing the jack and thinking _fuck it_ , taking a swig and hoping he’d get drunk enough not to remember this conversation in the morning.

Gently, she takes the bottle and fills his glass, putting the Jack down on her side of the coffee table.

 _Smart girl,_ he thinks fondly.

He drinks from his glass, and she lets him stall.

“Many things.” He replies, finally, and she snorts in derision. “Obviously.” Her tone is flat, and he flinches. She sighs, and murmurs, “Just tell me, Stiles, it’s only fair” and okay, yeah, she’s right there. She’s told him things, Malia’s shared her fears and horrors and secrets and terrors, and so yeah. He should as well.

He takes another drink and puts down the empty glass, and she refills it half way.  
In silent decision, they move closer, knees touching and hands clasped, and he looks at her, finally.

He licks his lips and continues. “What… what’s happened so far. What hasn’t, but might’ve. What I – What he, it did, when in me. What we – I – it could have done if we – us, the pack – had let it. Things that – that happened before me, to its previous hosts, but mostly the one prior to me. What-could-have-beens and what-weres. Violent, dark fantasies, and memories and – and warped memories. Visits to the time I was possessed, and when I wake up from those I have to count fingers. Sometimes, when I wake up, I wonder why I’m not in the camp anymore, and then it all comes flooding back and I just want to scream. Sometimes, I wake up thinking in we, in us, in plural and I feel like throwing up. Sometimes, I, we because there’s something, someone else there that shouldn’t be but isn’t doing any harm, not really, we visit things that have happened in the past, things that I’ve done that don’t seem quite possible for a normal human. But –” and here he laughed, a little hysterical – “But I’m not exactly normal, am I? Really, I mean, even my name isn’t exactly average.”

And he stopped, and reached for his glass and finished it in one.

She held out the Jack bottle and he held out the glass, watched as she filled it to the top, and this time he savored it, observing her as she refiled her own glass, and he wondered how many she’d had.

He had had quite a few, he thought, he must have, but he didn’t even feel tipsy yet.  
(The Jack was empty now, the bottle tossed carelessly aside and neither of them as drunk as they’d like. Which was to say, neither of them was drunk at all.)

She lowered her glass, half full, and he lowered his, almost empty, and Malia leveled her gaze to him. “And the anger?” she questioned, her voice calm in that way he knew meant she wasn’t calm, but he ignored it and saw in her eyes the gratefulness at his decision.

“Yeah.” He said finally.

“Anger. Random impulses to hit and or break things. Random impulses to retaliate against the smallest of things with dangerous ‘pranks’” he air-quoted the word pranks, and her lips quirked upwards.

“Like cutting the breaks on their cars or setting up arrow traps.” He paused, licked his lips then chewed at his top one, and looked away, sighed and continued. She put her hand on his arm and he looked back at her. “And random impulses to impale people with deadly weapons. To feed off their pain even though I can’t, I really, really, can’t do that.” And he didn’t finish that sentence with anymore because he wasn’t the one with that ability. At least he figured he wasn’t. It’s not like he was about to ask Scott if his eyes had gone white whilst he stole the pain from him and stabbed him with a sword. Yeah, uh. _No._ That would be a tremendously bad idea. So, until then. No. It was the nogitsune. It had to be.

She nodded and didn’t bring up the mornings where he lingered his hand on her arm, and his eyes conveyed his gratefulness.

He put down his glass, empty, and she put down hers not long after.

Their questions were done, for now, and they had the rest of the day left.  
Her lips quirked into a smile.

“Wanna practice Lacrosse? You’ll need to, at least, considering.”

And he nodded, because yeah. Avoiding practice is all well and good until coach arrives back and yells at him and he has to control the urge to hurt the man he had already impaled with an arrow. (Which he felt. Feels. Feels so, so bad about.)

She held out her hand and he took it, and she dragged him up to his room to get his equipment, and he thinks, I could get used to this.

They go outside, and he practices throwing lacrosse balls, and she catches every single one and they laugh, and for a time, to those who don’t know them, they’d seem like normal, happy teenagers.

Who didn’t just get not-drunk on a couch talking about impulses to murder people.  
They go outside, and he practices throwing lacrosse balls, and she catches every single one and they laugh, and for a time, to those who don’t know them, they’d seem like normal, happy teenagers.

Who didn’t just get not-drunk on a couch talking about impulses to murder people.

( Yeah. He thinks. _That’s a little messed up._ )

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. Um. My first foray into the world of writing fanfics for this particular fandom. I've had practice in others so I hope this wasn't like, majorly terrible. But. Well. What did you think? Heh. um. also - first fic on this site. but not first fic in general. so yeah. there's that too. I guess. I'm - I'm gonna. Go. Now.  
> \- Cesca.


End file.
